UC-NRLF 


longs,  Sighs  and  Curses 


c. 


VOLUME    I 
NUMBER    I 

SEPTEMBER 
1913 

PRICE    OF    THIS 
ISSUE    60    CENTS 


y     Adolf 

** 


Songs,  Sighs  and  Curses 

By 

Adolf  .Wolff, 


SEPTEMBER   1913 


Published  by  THE  GLEBE  at  Ridgefield, 
New  Jersey 


Copyright,  1913 

By 
Adolf  Wolff. 


TO  LEONARD  D.  ABBOTT. 

Dear  Friend: — To  whom  else  than  to  you 
can  I  dedicate  this  little  wreath  of  poems? 
Weeds  or  flowers,  without  you,  they  would 
not  have  been.  Your  interest,  your  sympathy, 
your  appreciation  were  the  sunshine  and  rain 
that  brought  them  forth — to  blossom  for  a 
moment  or  forever. 

ADOLF  WOLFF. 


435 


NOTE. — All  the  poems  in  this  volume  were  written  in  the  year  1912-13. 
When  asked  in  what  sequence  he  would  arrange  his  poems,  Wolff  threw 
the  manuscripts  in  the  air,  saying,  "Let  Fate  decide."  They  now  appear 
in  the  order  in  which  they  were  picked  up  from  the  floor.  This  is  true 
of  all  except  the  proem  and  those  comprising  the  group  under  the  head 
ing  "To  One  Who  Could  Not  Love,"  which  appear  towards  the  end  of 
the  volume. 


THE  PROEM 

I  sing  and  sigh  and  also  curse, 

Thus  only  can  I  give  expression 

To  that  which  will  not  brook  repression; 

I  am  alive,  I  have  a  voice, 

And  so  I  sing  and  sigh  and  curse — 

All  life  doth  sing  and  sigh  and  curse. 

The  joy  of  love  is  in  my  song, 

I  sigh  for  pleasures  yet  untasted — 

For  things  I  dream — o'er  moments  wasted 

And  sometimes  interrupt  my  song 

With  clenched  fist  to  curse  a  wrong — 

It  is  a  joy  to  curse  a  wrong. 

And  so  I  sing  and  sigh  and  curse — 
All  life  doth  sing  and  sigh  and  curse. 


CAPTIVES 

I  visited  the  Zoo  one  dreary  day, 

And  in  the  lion's  house  I  watched  a  lion, 

A  great  Numidian  lion  in  his  cage, 

With  eyes  three-quarters  closed,  with  haughty  gait, 

Pace  up  and  down  the  limits  of  his  cage. 

Was  he  oblivious  of  the  tyrant  bars, 
The  gaze  of  human  eyes,  his  captive  state, 
And  did  he  blink  but  better  thus  to  see 
The  jungle's  vast  expanse? 

He  suddenly  stood  still;  and,  face  to  face, 
We  stood  and  stared  into  each  other's  eyes, 
And  we  each  saw  in  one  another's  eyes 
A  royal  captive  in  a  wretched  cage. 


IF  I  WERE  GOD 

If  I  were  God — the  first  thing  I  would  do 
Would  be  to  make  all  women  beautiful. — 
All  women  beautiful — and  all  men  strong. 
Then  I'd  resign — and  make  myself  a  man. 
That's  just  what  I  would  do — if  I  were  God. 


OPTIMISM 

On  that  cold  table,  where  shameless,  without  blushing 
They  spread  their  nakedness, 
I  see  what  yesterday  had  been  a  living  beauty 
And  is  to-day  a  corpse — 
A  flimsy  mass  of  tissues  and  of  juices, 
The  prey  of  autopsy  to-day, 
To-morrow  prey  of  worms  and  dissolution. 
And  whilst  the  perfume  of  this  lifeless  flower, 
Concoction  made  of  chemicals  and  death, 
Inflicts  an  outrage  on  my  sense  of  odor, 
Does  disenchantment  fill  me  with  disgust? 
Does  Death's  black  wing  engulf  me  in  its  shadow? 
And  being  face  to  face  with  life's  fragility 
Am  I  made  sick  of  life? 
I  am  not  sick  of  life. 

I  prize  life  more  knowing  how  brief  it  is, 
How  insecure,  how  fragile  and  how  fleeting. 
I  love  the  eyes  bright  with  the  spark  of  life, 
I  love  them  more  knowing  they'll  soon  be  dimmed. 
I  love  the  lips  aglow  with  warmth  of  life, 
I  love  them  more  because  they'll  soon  be  cold. 
I  love  all  flesh  that  palpitates  with  life, 
I  love  it  more  knowing  it  soon  shall  be 
An  inert,  flimsy  mass  of  fetid  tissue. 
I  love  the  voice  that  rings  with  sounds  of  life, 
I  love  it  more  knowing  'twill  soon  be  silent. 
I  love  the  mind  pregnant  with  living  thought, 
I  love  it  more  knowing  that  soon  'twill  be 
The  tomb  of  thought. 
I  therefore  let  the  dead  bury  their  dead, 
And  like  a  buzzing  bee  in  quest  of  flowers 
I  seek  the  flowers  of  life  that  gladly  yield 
The  sap  that  love  distills  to  joy — that  joy 
That  is  much  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  honey. 

8 


THE  CLOUD 

There  hovers  over  me  a  muddy  cloud, 
Enveloping  me  in  its  gloomy  shadow, 
That  dims  the  native  sunshine  of  my  heart, 
That  dulls  the  keen  perception  of  the  mind, 
That  stunts  the  latent  powers  of  the  soul, 
That  smothers  all  the  rising  flames  of  hope, 
That  cowes  the  wings  of  genius  that  would  soar. 

I  am  forever  followed  by  this  cloud, 
I  can't  escape,  I  cannot  flee  this  cloud, 
This  muddy,  gloomy,  hell-begotten  cloud — 
The  dollar  sign  is  traced  upon  this  cloud! 


QUESTIONINGS 

Is  it  because  the  sun  caresses  me 

And  makes  me  warm  with  its  delightful  rays 

That  it  is  mine?     That  it  is  only  mine? 

Is  it  because  I  frolic  in  the  sea, 

The  sea  that  hugs  me  with  a  thousand  waves, 

That  it  is  mine?    That  it  is  only  mine? 

Is  it  because  I  hold  you  in  my  arms 

And  madly  kiss  you,  calling  you  my  love, 

That  you  are  mine?    That  you  are  only  mine? 


TO 


THE  LIBERTY  I  LOATHE 

I  am  at  large,  can  go  this  way  and  that, 
No  dungeon  walls,  no  prison  bars  say  halt, 
When  roving  fancies  seize  upon  my  feet. 

But  am  I  free?    Can  I  be  truly  free 
When  that  which  lives  within  me  is  repressed, 
When  my  true  self  in  vain  from  deep  within 
Doth  clamor  for  the  right  of  self-expression? 

What  hideous  mockery  of  freedom  this! 
Put  me  in  jail,  put  me  in  jail  for  life, 
Let  bread  and  water  be  my  only  fare, 
Make  rats  and  spiders  my  associates. 

But  have  the  light  into  my  dungeon  pour 
From  overhead  and  give  me  clay, 
Oh,  give  me  lots  of  clay — the  tender  flesh, 
The  oily,  tender  flesh  of  mother  earth, 

Responsive  as  a  mistress  to  the  touch, 
And  I  will  have  a  feast  no  king  e'er  knew, 
And  taste  of  pleasures  that  the  gods  would  envy. 
And  I  will  make  unto  myself  a  world, 

A  world  of  which  myself  would  be  the  God, 
A  world  in  which  my  every  dream  and  thought, 
My  every  feeling  and  my  every  passion 
Would  find  embodiment  in  plastic  form. 

Oh,  for  a  prison  where  I  could  be  free! 


ii 


ON  SEEING  THE  GARMENT  STRIKERS 
MARCH 

I  see  a  hundred  thousand  marching  by. 
I  also  see  as  many,  many  millions 
That  are  in  spirit  also  marching  by. 
And  lo!  methinks  this  is  but  a  rehearsal 

For  the  Exodus  from  the  Land  of  Bondage — 
And  I  behold  with  my  prophetic  eyes 
God's  chosen  people  crossing  the  Red  Sea; 
The  workers  of  the  world,  God's  chosen  people, 
Are  crossing  the  Red  Sea  of  Revolution. 
And  I  behold  the  Industrial  Commonwealth, 
The  Promised  Land  of  plenty  and  of  peace, 
Where  each  one,  under  his  own  fig-tree  seated, 
Shall  sing  his  praises  to  the  Lord  of  Life. 


12 


THE  TOILERS 

Crouching  they  cling  like  vermin  to  the  earth 
And  with  their  bleeding  fingers  scrape  the  earth 
But  for  a  little  dust,  their  sustenance, 
A  little  dust  mixed  with  the  sweat  of  brow, 
The  blood  of  fingers  and  the  tears  of  pain. 

'Tis  not  for  them  the  sun  shines  gloriously, 
The  flowers  bloom,  the  fruit  hangs  on  the  tree, 
'Tis  not  for  them  the  birds  and  poets  sing, 
Or  lovely  women  smile. 

They  have  to  crouch  and  cling  and  sweat  and  scrape 
But  for  a  little  dust — their  sustenance. 


PANEROTICISM 

I  love  all  women's  smiling  eyes, 
I  love  all  women's  tempting  lips, 
I  love  all  women's  loving  hearts, 
I  love  all  women's  tender  skin, 
I  love  all  women's  glowing  flesh, 
I  love  all  women's  weakness, 
I  love  all  women's  strength. 
I  love!    I  love!    I  love! 


APHRODITE 

I've  seen  a  Venus  not  of  marble  carved 

By  some  great  sculptor's  hand  in  ancient  Greece, 

Unearthed  in  a  mutilated  state 

By  archaeologists  in  quest  of  ruins 

And  pedestaled  in  temple  of  fine  art. 

The  Venus  I  have  seen  was  made  of  flesh, 
Of  ordinary,  living,  human  flesh, 
More  beautiful  than  statue  e'er  could  be. 
She  stands  behind  a  counter  in  a  store 
From  morning  until  night  dispensing  wares — 
A  living  Venus  at  five  dollars  per. 


THE  TYRANNY  OF  RHYME 

Inane  coquette,  depart  from  me, 
Thou  siren  known  as  Muse  of  rhyme, 
Thou  fain  wouldst  make  thy  slave  of  me, 
To  give  thee  all  my  thought,  my  time, 
And  all  the  love  that's  in  my  heart, 
I  know  thee  well,  depart!  depart! 

I  love  a  nobler  Muse  than  thee, 
She's  simple,  free,  intense,  sublime, 
Her  rhythm  has  sweeter  melody 
Than  e'er  could  have  thy  wanton  rhyme. 
I  gave  to  Rhythm  my  soul,  my  heart, 
O  Muse  of  Rhyme,  depart!  depart! 


16 


LINES  INSPIRED  ON  MEETING  A  LADY 

To  A.  L. 

I  look  at  life  as  an  astronomer 
Looks  at  the  star-filled  sky. 

Life  seems  a  sky  to  me,  all  human  beings 

Rotating  in  their  orbits  are  as  stars. 

Some  are  obscure  and  some  are  luminous, 

Some  give  the  light  and  warmth  to  solar  systems, 

Some  shed  on  lovers'  heads  soft  lunar  light. 

Some,  like  the  comets,  cosmic  vagabonds, 

Are  ever  tramping  the  sidereal  roads, 

And  others,  myriad-massed  in  endless  stretches, 

Compose  the  glory  of  the  Milky  Way. 

I  look  at  life  as  an  astrologer 

Believing  in  the  influence  of  stars, 

Their  influences  evil,  beneficial. 

Perplexed  I  ponder  o'er  the  laws  mysterious 

That  govern  all  the  movements  of  the  stars. 

And  I  am  troubled  in  my  inmost  being 

At  the  appearance  of  a  new-found  star 

As  on  the  threshold  of  a  mystery. 

There  hove  into  my  sphere  a  new-found  star 

Of  primal  magnitude,  magnificent, 

Whose  magnetism  most  irrestistibly 

Attracts  me  to  itself. 

Am  I  to  be  the  happy  satellite 
Of  this  fair  human  sun  whose  smile  or  frown 
Could  make  me  be  a  fertile  Earth  or  Moon, 
A  fertile  Earth  or  frozen,  barren  Moon? 
Oh,  will  it  just  continue  in  its  course, 
Rotating  in  its  orbit  and  recede, 
Recede,  recede,  and  leave  me  far  behind 
Obscure  and  cold  and  sad  and  all  alone?  .  .  . 

17 


OSCAR  WILDE 

The  work  was  done. 

The  spirit-moulders  of  immortal  souls 

Wiped  from  their  brows  the  sweat  and  washed  their 

hands, 

And  standing  by,  in  full  contentment  gazed 
Upon  their  wondrous  work. 

A  masterpiece!  it  was  a  masterpiece! 

A  genius  to  be  born  unto  the  world, 

One  more  to  swell  that  galaxy  of  stars 

That  makes  the  cosmic  bosom  swell  with  pride. 

Another  inextinguishable  star 

To  scintillate  throughout  eternity. 

The  angels  stood,  heads  bowed  in  reverence 
Before  what  was  to  be  the  poet  Wilde, 
And  as  they  stood,  these  proud  progenitors, 
In  blissful  contemplation  of  their  child, 
There  fell  upon  them,  as  a  shadow  cast 
By  purple  clouds  upon  a  limpid  lake, 
A  sadness  that  no  human  voice  could  tell. 

Forebodings  of  the  suffering  of  Wilde 

Depressed  them  so  that,  kneeling  down,  they  wept. 

They  wept  over  the  dire  humiliation 

Awaiting  him  who  is  the  pride  of  God, 

And  over  man's  stupidity  they  wept — 

The  colossal  stupidity  of  man. 


18 


IMPERIALISM 

With  one  great  gesture  of  my  love-mad  arms 
Would  that  I  could  embrace  the  entire  world, 
The  entire  world  of  love-inspiring  women. 

With  one  unending  pressure  of  my  lips 
I  wish  that  I  could  kiss  the  entire  world, 
The  entire  world  of  love-inspiring  women. 

With  one  great  spasm  of  ecstacy  supreme 
Would  that  I  could  possess  the  entire  world, 
The  entire  world  of  love-inspiring  women. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  POOR 

The  children  of  the  poor  are  little  plants 
That  grow  in  sandy  soil  midst  rocks  and  weeds 
And  rusty  cans  of  tin,  and  other  junk 
Within  the  gloomy  shadow  of  a  wall, 
The  gloomy  shadow  of  a  mildewed  wall ; 
Poor  little  plants!  poor  children  of  the  poor. 


20 


THE  CALL  OF  SEX 

Know  you  that  bottomless  and  boundless  sea, 
Each  heaving  billow  whereof  is  a  woman? 
Oh,  how  my  love-parched  body  craves  to  plunge 
Into  the  soothing  substance  of  this  sea!  .  .  . 

Oh,  for  the  joy  of  absolute  abandon 
To  the  caressing  furore  of  this  sea; 
The  frantic  joy  of  breaking  all  restrictions, 
Of  daring  all  the  dangers  of  this  sea! 

The  ecstatic  and  the  harrowing  sensation 
Of  rising,  ever  rising  on  a  wave, 
A  giant  wave  that  rises,  ever  rises, 
And  then  to  be  replunged  into  the  deep! 

The  all-absorbing,  all-inclusive  deep. 

What  if  the  mouth  doth  swallow  liquid  bitter; 
What  if  the  heinous  sharks  men  call  disease 
Snap  at  my  flesh,  infecting  me  with  poison, 
And  even  what  if  that  mysterious  mermaid, 
That  moon-pale  Undine  claim  me  as  her  own 
And  seal  our  union  with  the  kiss  of  death? 

What  of  it?     Does  not  all  life  end  in  death? 
Give  me  the  death  of  Tristan  and  Isolde: 
I  die  for  life  and  love, — I  fear  not  death. 


21 


IMMORTALITY 

At  dawn  of  day  the  stars  die  one  by  one. 
They  only  seem  to  die,  but  do  not  die. 

There  is  no  death  for  humans,  or  for  stars. 
What  we  call  life  and  death  is  only  rhythm. 
It  is  all  cadence,  measure,  rest,  inflection, 
The  poetry,  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

The  universe  is  one  stupendous  poem 

Whereof  the  suns  and  stars  are  words  and  letters, 

And  we  frail  humans,  punctuation  marks. 


TO  LIVE  OR  NOT  TO  LIVE 

To  be  or  not  to  be  is  not  the  question; 
The  question  is,  to  live  or  not  to  live. 
Alive  or  dead  or  only  vegetating, 
One  thing  is  sure,  we  cannot  help  but  being. 

To  live !  to  be  alive ;  to  live  intensely ! 
To  live  with  every  fibre  of  the  frame, 
With  every  sinew,  every  nerve  and  muscle ; 
To  live  like  this,  or  not  to  live  at  all. 

But  we  are  cowards,  we  are  fools  and  misers, 
Afraid  to  live — afraid  to  pay  the  price — 
The  price  of  youth, — the  price  of  youth  is  age; 
The  price — the  price  of  joy  is  pain. 

And  disenchantment  is  the  price  of  love. 
And  Life — the  price  of  Life  is  Death. 

Come,  let  us  live,  and  let  us  live  intensely. 
Life!  Life!  more  Life!  more  Life  at  any  cost. 


MY  RICHES 

Behold  in  me  one  richer  than  a  king, 
Richer  than  Croesus  was  or  Solomon, 
Aye,  richer  even  than  a  Rockefeller. 
And  lo!  the  gilded  portals  of  my  palace 
Are  thrown  wide  open,  and  the  spacious  vaults, 
Staked  full  of  treasures  even  to  o'erflowing 
Remain  unguarded,  and  I  welcome  thee 
To  enter  and  partake  of  all  my  riches. 

My  palace  is  my  heart ;  my  wealth,  my  treasure 
Is  love,  immeasurable,  boundless  love. 


DEPRIVATION 

The  world  is  like  a  tapestry  to  me, 
Immense  and  wonderful,  where  interwoven 
With  art  most  consummate   by  masterhand 
I  see  a  maze  of  beings  and  of  things. 

I  can  but  see  a  little  at  a  time, 

My  sight  is  limited,  the  view  is  vast, 

The  picture  disconcertingly  complex. 

But  often,  here  and  there,  a  brilliant  spot, 

A  woman's  figure  in  life's  tapestry 

Attracts  my  gaze  and  holds  me  in  its  spell. 

And,  like  a  child  that's  crying  for  the  moon, 

My  hands  would  grasp  that  which  delights  mine  eye, 

To  press  it  fondly  to  my  happy  heart. 

Alas,  the  world,  as  tapestry  and  tomb, 

Will  not  give  up  its  own. 


A  SPHINX 

I  like  to  see  a  woman  wearing  furs, 
Long-haired  and  dark  and  vicious  looking  furs, 
Strong  smelling,  soft,  exotic  looking  furs, 
Contrasting  strongly  with  her  brilliant  flesh, 
Her  tender,  warm  and  angel-tinted  flesh. 
I  love  the  angel  and  the  beast  in  women. 
That's  why  I  like  a  woman  wearing  furs. 


26 


EXCUSE  ME,  MUSE 

'Tis  not  the  hour  to  sing  of  pink-hued  vapors 
So  softly  sailing  under  azure  skies; 
Nor  of  the  shadow  warm  and  so  mysterious 
Cast  by  the  lashes  of  a  woman's  eyes. 

'Tis  not  the  time  for  soft  euphonious  sighing 
And  holding  converse  with  pale  lunar  light. 
'Tis  not  the  hour  for  musing  and  for  dreaming, 
Excuse  me,  Muse,  I  must  go  out  and  fight. 

And  I  will  fight  as  long  as  infants  suckle 
In  vain  at  parched  breasts  devoid  of  milk; 
As  long  as  my  poor  sisters  sell  their  bodies 
For  bread   and  rags,  while   parasites   wear   silk. 

As  long  as  slave  and  master,  thief  and  pauper 
Remain  such  terms  as  may  to  man  apply, 
So  long,  I  say,  my  lyre  shall  be  a  weapon, 
My  song  shall  be  the  rebel's  battle  cry. 


27 


NOEL 

Tormented  Galilean  who  art  Lord 

Of  those  that  crucify  thee  every  day 

And  every  hour  and  minute  of  the  day 

And  every  hour  and  minute  of  the  night: 

With  pious  glee  they  celebrate  the  night 

That  witnessed  thine  appearance  upon  earth, 

That  night  when  angels  chanted  "peace  on  earth." 

They  chanted  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men," 
And  thou  wert  crowned  with  thorns  by  hands  of  men 
And  thou  wert  spat  upon  by  mouths  of  men 
And  thou  hast  been  betrayed  by  kiss  of  men; 
Condemned  by  men  and  crucified  by  men, 
Aye,  crucified  and  deified  by  men. 

And  every  year  for  many  centuries, 

On  Christmas  eve  for  many  centuries, 

In  churches  and  cathedrals  Christians  sing 

Their  gladness  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord. 

The  organ's  thunder  glorifies  the  Lord, 

The  priests  and  ministers  exalt  the  Lord, 

The  infant  Lord  the  virgin  Mary  bore; 

On  Christmas  eve  it  was  in  Bethlehem: 

And  whilst  they  fete  the  babe  of  Bethlehem, 

Ten  thousand  babes  on  earth  die  painful  deaths 

And  millions  live  to  live  lives  worse  than  death 

And  still  the  massacre  of  innocents 

Goes  on  relentlessly.    Poor  innocents! 


28 


LINES  TO  THE  WOOLWORTH 
BUILDING 

Imposing  pile  of  pale  and  polished  stone, 

Cathedral-like  in  thy  solemnity, 

Thy  rectilinear  grandeur  awes  my  soul, 

And  makes  me  shudder! 

Monstrous  sacrilege,  O  when  before 

Has  thing  so  big  been  made  for  end  so  small? 

Unholy  Temple  of  the  priests  of  lucre, 

How  most  appropriate  thy  pallor  is, 

So  like  in  color  to  the  tint  of  bones — 

Thy  slender,  upright  lines  so  much  like  bones — 

So  much  like  children's  bones. 

How  like  unto  the  pyramids  thou  art; 
The  tyrants'  tombs,  built  by  a  million  slaves. 
And  like  the  pyramids,  ere  long 
Thou'lt  be  the  relic  of  an  age  gone  by. 


THE  ARTISTS 

They  have  been  born  to  model  and  to  mould 
The  shapeless  clay  into  expressive  form 
Even  as  gods!  to  seize  the  fleeting  shades, 
The  subtle  hues  of  things  that  pass  or  stay 
And  make  them  live  and  glow  intensely. 

They  have  been  born  to  tell  their  wondrous  dreams 
In  rhythmic  stanzas  full  of  strength  and  grace, 
To  plunge  into  the  very  depths  of  things, 
To  seek  the  precious  essence  that  is  fit 
For  distillation  to  symphonic  strain. 

Require  them  not  to  leave  their  sacred  sphere, 
To  mix  with  common  vendors  in  the  mart, 
To  traffic  their  creations  and  to  throw 
The  priceless  pearls  of  genius  to  the  swine 
For  but  a  bowl  of  vinegar  and  gall. 

O  bring  to  them  the  litle  bread  and  milk 
Which  they  must  have  to  live,  and  if  you  can 
Rejoice  to  give  them  honey.    Be  to  them 
What  ravens  were  unto  a  prophet  once. 

Does  not  the  beauty  they  create  or  dream 
Atone  for  all  our  ugly  deeds  or  thoughts, 
Even  as  the  saints  who  pray  for  those  that  sin 
Sustain  the  equilibrium  that  must  be 
In  order  that  the  world  may  not  be  doomed? 

Eternal  malediction  fall  on  those 

Who  mock  or  crucify  these  chosen  ones 

And  let  them  be  thrice  blessed  who  help  to  clear 

Life's  rugged  road  of  thorns  for  those  who  pass 

And  passing,  leave  this  world  more  beautiful. 

30 


CAIN  REFORMED 

Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?    Yes,  indeed, 
I  keep  him,  aye,  I  keep  him  hard  at  work. 
I  also  keep  the  fruit  of  all  his  work 
And  of  his  children's  work  I  keep  the  fruit. 

And  when  he  does  not  keep  the  laws  I  make 
That  give  me  power  to  keep  him  hard  at  work, 
I  am  his  keeper,  keeping  him  in  jail. 
Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?     Yes,  indeed. 


GOLGOTHA 

On  the  Golgotha  of  mine  inmost  being 
There  stands  a  crucifix, 
And  in  the  deepest  recess  of  my  being 
In  perpetuity  Good  Friday  reigns. 

And  always  in  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
The  endless  night  within  mine  inmost  being, 
I  hear  the  moaning  and  the  supplications 
Of  him  that's  crucified  within  my  being. 

I  see  the  wounds  of  side  and  hands  and  feet, 
The  wounds  that  glow  like  rubies  in  the  night, 
That  cast  a  lurid  glare  upon  the  night, 
Those  mystic  wounds  in  number  like  the  senses. 

Four  horrid  wounds  upon  the  hands  and  feet, 
One  on  the  side,  thus  making  five  in  all, 
Just  as  the  senses,  making  five  in  all. 

And  in  the  endless  night  within  my  being 
I  hear  the  moaning  and  the  supplications. 

"Oh,  tear  me  from  my  cross,"  entreats  the  Christ, 

"For  I  am  Joy,  thy  God,  the  son  of  Life. 

Oh,  tear  me  from  my  cross,"  entreats  the  Christ. 

That  cursed  instrument  of  agony, 

Is  conscience ;  human  conscience  is  the  cross — 

The  cross  whereon  our  Joy  is  crucified. 

My  Lord,  I  will  redeem  thee  from  thy  cross, 
And  give  thee  burial  in  mine  aching  heart, 
Whence  thou  shalt  rise  and  henceforth  ever  reign 
Over  the  Kingdom  of  the  blessed  flesh. 

32 


IDOLATRY 

I  stood  before  a  leg  in  the  museum, 
A  marble  leg,  a  mutilated  leg, 
Supported  by  a  rod  of  polished  bronze. 
This  leg  of  some  hermaphroditic  god 
Was    carved    in    Greece,    when    ancient    Greece   was 
young. 

In  deepest  reverence  I  stood  and  gazed 

Upon  this  relic  of  an  absent  god. 

And  as  I  stood  I  wondered  if  perchance 

Idolatry  is  not  this  very  act, 

That  thus  enshrines  an  ancient  piece  of  stone, 

Whilst  living  sculptors  are  compelled  to  waste 

In  fruitless  idleness  that  precious  power 

Which  carves  the  Victories  of  Samothrace. 

Idolaters,  ye  worship  graven  stones 

But  are  indifferent  to  the  gods  that  carve  them. 


33 


TO  ARTURO  GIOVANNITTI 

Arturo  Giovannitti,  fellow  worker 
In  song  and  in  revolt,  sing  on !  sing  on ! 
The  battling  warriors  in  the  war  of  classes 
Have  need  of  your  inspired,  inspiring  voice, 
You  are  the  rebel,  leader,  poet,  prophet, 
You  have  already  worn  the  martyr's  crown. 

If  there  be  in  me  just  one  spark  of  envy, 

It  is  that  I  was  not  like  you  in  gaol. 

I  envied  you  that  most  supreme  distinction 

Of  living  in  the  shadow  of  the  cross 

With  all  the  sacred  shades  of  martyred  rebels, 

A  fellow  worker  of  departed  Christs. 


34 


NIGHTMARE 

I  had  a  dream,  I  had  a  horrid  dream. 

I  dreamt  that  Byron  travels  for  a  house 

That  handles  wines  from  Portugal  and  Spain, 

That  Shelley  is  a  cashier  of  a  bank, 

That  Keats  is  valet  to  a  wealthy  Jew, 

That  Oscar  Wilde  lays  bricks,  that  Edgar  Poe 

Is  selling  silks  and  satins  on  the  road, 

And  that  Walt  Whitman,  he  of  noble  height, 

Is  manager  of  a  department  store. 

And  I  would  have  dreamed  on,  had  not  disgust, 

A  flood  of  dire  disgust,  awakened  me, 

And  I  myself  was  forced  to  rush  downtown 

To  live  the  life  I  shudder  at  in  dream. 


35 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  SEEING  HENRI'S 

PAINTING  OF 
THE  LADY  IN  BLACK  VELVET 

The  Lady  in  black  velvet  is  the  night, 
The  deep,  uncanny,  weird,  mysterious  night, 
The  witching,  troubling,  awe-inspiring  night, 
Serene  and  silent,  sweet  and  subtle  night, 
Tempestuous,  tragic,  black  and  feverish  night. 

The  Lady  in  black  velvet  is  the  night, 

Her  robe  of  black  as  black  as  blackest  night, 

Enfolds  a  world — a  world  of  sleepless  night, 

A  world  of  sighs,  of  cravings  and  of  crimes, 

Of  maddening  joys,  of  languors  that  consume, 

Of  pains  unbearable,  of  livid  fears, 

Of  nightmares  and  of  dreams. 

Then  there's  the  sombre  gray  of  shifting  clouds 

Whose  masses  rent  asunder  now  reveal 

The  radiant  luminary  of  the  night, 

Her  silv'ry,  radiant  face  is  Queen  of  night. 

The  Lady  in  black  velvet  is  the  night. 


THE  BABE 

Fruit  of  a  moment  of  supremest  bliss, 
A  passionate  embrace,  a  long  drawn  kiss, 
Soft,  pink  and  warm  and  chubby  little  thing, 
Most  helpless  being,  despotic  as  a  king. 

Third  cousin  to  the  gold-fish,  the  kitten  and  the  chick, 
As  free  from  care  as  they  are,  as  sharne-free  and  as 

quick 

To  feel  that  life  means  living  and  living  must  be  joy, 
That  nothing  is  of  value  unless  it  be  a  toy. 


37 


A  SCENARIO 

Scene    I. 

The  time — a  glorious  summer  afternoon. 
The  place — somewhere  along  the  Palisades. 
Rocks  here  and  there;  some  trees  and  many  bushes. 

A  youthful  artist,  seated  on  a  rock, 

With  great  strokes  paints  the  sun-illumined  Hudson, 

A  fair  young  woman  enters  on  the  scene, 
Absorbed  in  picking  many  kinds  of  flowers. 

The  youthful  artist,  catching  sight  of  her, 
Stands  up  and  drops  his  palette  and  his  brushes. 
And  when  she  sees  the  youth  she  drops  the  flowers. 

They  stand  in  silence  looking  at  each  other. 
He  then  approaches  her  to  raise  her  flowers — 
And  then  she  smiles,  and  he  says  foolish  things, 
Deliciously  absurd  and  foolish  things. 

The  insects  are  abuzzing,  and  the  leaves — 
The  foliage  of  the  bushes  and  the  trees 
Are  whispering — are  gossiping  in  whispers. 

He  takes  her  by  the  hand  and  kisses  her, 
He  kisses  her  and  takes  her  in  his  arms, 
And  carries  her  behind  a  clump  of  bushes. 


Scene    II. 

The  time  and  place  and  scene  just  as  before. 
From  left  to  right  there  enters  on  the  scene 
Quite  simultaneously  a  man  and  woman. 
Each  reads  a  book  while  walking,  so  absorbed 
That  they  well-nigh  collide  with  one  another. 
He  begs  her  pardon  which,  of  course,  she  grants. 
He  asks  her  if  they  have  not  met  before, 
Her  face  seems  so  familiar,  and  she  says : 
Perhaps  he  saw  her  somewhere  at  a  lecture. 
And  so  they  start  to  talk  about  their  books, 
About  their  lectures  and  about  their  books. 
They  seat  themselves  upon  a  rock  and  talk, 
And  talk  and  talk  and  talk  and  talk  and  talk. 
The  insects  are  abuzzing  and  the  leaves — 
The  foliage  of  the  bushes  and  the  trees 
Are  whispering,  are  gossiping  in  whispers. 
And  from  behind  the  softly  swaying  bushes 
Escape  the  sounds  of  kisses  and  of  sighs, 
The  kisses  and  the  sighs  of  youthful  lovers. 
And  all  the  time  the  woman  and  the  man 
Sit  arguing,  discussing  and  discussing 
Psychology,  sociology  and  ethics. 
So  different  it  is  behind  the  bushes. 
And  while  some  hug  and  kiss  and  others  argue, 
A  sudden  gloom  spreads  over  everything. 
The  azure  sky  is  now  a  sky  of  ink, 
The  lightning  flashes  and  the  thunder  claps, 
The  shower  is  terrific'ly  intense. 
Both  couples  find  an  overhanging  rock, 
A  scanty  shelter  'gainst  a  raging  storm. 
A  blinding  lightning  flash,  a  thunder  clap, 
All  four  lie  dead. 
Is  there  a  moral? 
Guess ! 

39 


THE  TEMPLE 

Round,  full  and  fertile  is  her  abdomen, 

Even  as  Mother  Earth. 

O !  tree  of  life  bearing  the  fruit  of  love, 

O!  precious  shell  a  precious  pearl  enclosing, 

O !  wondrous  instrument  whereon  love  plays 

A  fiery  rhapsody, 

The  echo  whereof  is  a  human  life. 

O !  blessed  mother  of  the  child  of  man. 

Ye  fools,  detach  your  gaze  from  godless  heavens, 
God  is  right  here  if  you  would  worship  God, 
The  mystery  of  life  and  love  is  God, 
And  every  pregnant  woman  is  God's  temple. 


40 


SHELLEY 

Lucifer !  dripping  with  celestial  splendour, 

All  aglow  with  cosmic  rebellion, 

Thundering  forth  pious  blasphemies, 

Chanting  sacrilegious  hymns, 

Thy  voice  is  like  unto  the  trumpet  sounds 

Of  the  Archangels  of  the  Apocalypse 

Calling  the  dead  to  life. 

Meteor  fallen  from  the  bosom  of  infinitude 

Into  the  common  clay, 

Strange  visitant  from  another  orb, 

Permeated  with  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Replete  and  radiant  with  rarest  gems, 

Perplexing,  exciting,  soothing,  betwitching. 

Lucifer!  Prometheus!  Dionysos!  Shelley! 


THE  SCULPTOR  AND  THE  CLAY 

The  sculptor,  man,  in  woman  mostly  sees 
The  clay  of  which  to  model  gods  of  love. 
Some,  cunning  little  cupids  only  are, 
The  little  rascal  gods  of  light  flirtation, 
Who  like  the  fire-flies  on  a  summer  night 
Are  luminous  a  moment — and  that's  all. 

While  others  are  the  serious  gods  of  love, 

Majestic  and  intense  as  life  itself, 

Mysterious  and  perplexing  as  the  Sphinx, 

Relentless  as  the  furies  or  as  death, 

As  maddening  as  poison  of  the  snake, 

As  soothing  as  is  balm  upon  a  wound, 

And  sweet  as  that  which  passeth  understanding. 

As  sweet  as  that  and  sometimes  just  as  bitter. 

Such  are  the  statues  man,  the  sculptor,  moulds 
Of  woman — clay. 


42 


CONTEMPT 

I  spit  upon  the  laws  that  thieves  have  made 

To  give  the  crooked  strength  to  rob  the  weak. 

I  spit  upon  a  country  full  of  wealth 
Where  millions  live  in  squalor  and  in  want. 

I  spit  upon  a  flag  that  waves  above 

A  nation  made  of  masters  and  of  slaves. 

I  spit  upon  religions  that  defend 

A  hell  on  earth,  and  preach  a  life  to  come. 

I  spit  upon  all  morals  that  contend 

That  joy  of  life  is  not  life's  highest  end. 

I  spit  upon  the  education  that 

Makes  pygmies  out  of  what  might  have  been  men. 

Upon  this  whole  damned  system  do  I  spit, 
And  while  I  spit — I  weep. 


43 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 

Dreamer  of  dreams — dreamer  of  golden  dreams, 
Explorer  of  the  rainbow-lands  of  yore, 
Columbus  of  Arcadian  Continents, 
Poetic  founder  of  Utopian  states. 

Dreamer  of  dreams?    Dreamer  of  only  dreams? 
A  master  worker  with  the  mind  and  hand 
Who  made  the  beautiful  and  useful  wed, 
An  alchemist  who  turned  all  work  to  art. 

Dreamer  of  dreams?    Maker  of  wondrous  things? 
A  knight  in  mortal  combat  for  a  cause, 
A  sower  of  emancipation's  seed, 
A  master  builder  of  a  better  world. 


44 


DON  JUAN'S  SONG 

From  maids  yet  in  their  spring-time  teens 
To  full  blown  thirty  summer  queens, 
I  love  them  all ! 

From  golden  blondes  and  deep  brunettes 
To  Titian-locked  one  ne'er  forgets — 
I  love  them  all ! 

From  fairies  frail  or  plump  or  slender 
To  women  built  with  queenly  splendor, 
I  love  them  all ! 

From  damsels  pale  and  melancholy 
To  matrons  gay  and  widows  jolly, 
I  love  them  all ! 

From  maidens  unsophisticated 
To  syrens  well  initiated, 

I  love  them  all!    I  love  them  all! 


45 


EASTER  ON  FIFTH  AVENUE 

Capital  best  qualifies  the  weather 

That  Easter  Sunday  donned  for  the  occasion 

And  the  parade  was  also  capital, 

It  was  indeed  a  capital  parade. 

The  gorgeous  gowns,  the  stunning  Easter  hats 
Were  capital  and  those  hand-made  complexions 
Down  to  the  escorts  groomed  with  perfect  style 
Down  to  the  sermons  that  the  preachers  preached 
In  fashionable  churches  were  most  capital. 

Indeed  the  sight  I  saw  that  Easter  morn 
Along  Fifth  Avenue  was  capital, 
Upon  the  sidewalks  silently  and  slow 
The  grand  cortege  of  capital  marched  on. 

And  whilst  I  was  enjoying  this  grand  sight 

There  rose  before  my  mind  another  sight: 

I  saw  the  street  between  the  sidewalks  filled 

In  compact  mass  with  wan  and  worn  spectators 

Who  were  in  silence  viewing  the  parade, 

It  was  a  mob  of  children,  men  and  women 

Whose  pallid  faces  and  whose  piteous  rags 

Gave  to  the  spectacle  a  capital  contrast, 

'Twas   Easter,   Easter,  lo!     The   Christ   has   risen! 

Upon  the  whole  the  show  was  capital. 


46 


CONTEMPLATION 

I  went  into  a  house  of  many  lofts, 
And  in  each  loft  I  saw  a  thousand  men, 
And  women,  too,  and  children,  too,  I  saw. 
And  all  around  arose  a  deaf'ning  roar — 
The  roaring  of  machines  o'er  which  were  bent 
The  toilers  toiling  at  their  tiresome  task. 
And  as  I  stood  and  gazed  upon  this  scene 
I  wondered  why  it  was — I  wondered  why .... 

I  went  into  a  house  of  gilded  halls, 
And  in  each  hall  there  shone  a  thousand  lights, 
And  many  men  and  women  also  shone. 
Delightful  music  mingled  with  perfume. 
Around  luxurious  tables,  diners  sat 
Enjoying  luscious  viands,  mellow  wines. 
And  as  I  stood  and  gazed  upon  this  scene, 
I  thought  of  toilers  and  I  understood. 


47 


CONFIDENCES 

I  have  to  go  to  work  to  win  my  bread, 

When  oft  upon  my  way  the  Muse  of  song, 

Espying  me  from  far  approaches  me 

And  takes  me  by  the  hand  as  tenderly 

As  would  a  sister  take  her  little  brother. 

She  whispers  words  as  sparkling  as  champagne, 

As  warm  as  blood,  as  pure  as  morning  dew, 

And  so  enchants  me  that  I  cannot  help 

But  yield  unto  the  tempting  muse  of  song. 

She  takes  me  from  the  world's  drear,  dusty  road 

And  leads  me  into  that  mysterious  park 

Where  lies  the  limpid  lake  of  inspiration. 

The  flowers  of  life  and  death  grow  in  this  park — 

Of  love  and  hate,  the  flowers  of  joy  and  pain, 

Of  smiles  and  sighs,  of  laughter  and  of  tears, 

The  blooms  of  hope  and  those  of  disillusion. 

All,  all  these  flowers  grow  in  this  wondrous  park. 

I  drink  some  water  from  the  Muse's  palm, 

The  water  of  the  lake  of  inspiration. 

And  then  in  silence  do  I  wend  my  way 

Through  rows  of  silent  and  mysterious  flowers, 

Inhaling  all  the  odors  of  the  flowers, 

The  sweet  and  bitter  odors  of  the  flowers. 

And  like  the  bee,  I  also  make  some  honey, 

Alas !  my  honey  is  not  always  sweet. 

Perhaps  because  the  flowers  of  life  are  bitter. 

Then  I  am  harshly  driven  from  this  Eden 

By  the  compulsion  of  a  god  I  hate, 

And  I  must  go  to  work  to  win  my  bread. 

The  honey  of  the  poet  has  no  market. 

Tempt  me  no  more,  dear  Muse,  or  else  I'll  starve. 


48 


IN  THE  LIBRARY 

As  she  sat  facing  me  the  other  day 

Reading  a  book,  while  I  was  writing  verses, 

Or  rather  trying  to,  for  I  could  not 

Detach  my  gaze  from  her  bewitching  visage, 

Nor  could  my  mind  in  rhythmic  furrows  flow, 

Pursuing  thoughts  to  her  all  unrelated, 

When  like  the  heaving  billows  that  are  yielding 

To  the  attracting  powers  of  the  moon, 

My  every  thought  by  her  has  been  attracted. 

I  thus  bethought  me :   "Wherefore  write  I  poems, 

When  here,  before  me,  breathes  a  living  poem, 

Compared  to  whom,  all  poems  are  as  dust 

Besides  a  sweetly  smelling,  blooming  flower." 

So  I  lay  down  my  pen  and  gazed  at  her. 


49 


BYRON 

The  thought  of  Byron  wakens  in  my  mind 

The  vision  of  a  solitary  tree 

Titanic  and  contorted  on  a  cliff 

That  overhangs  a  wild  abysmal  sea. 

Its  mighty  root,  a  maze  of  tentacles, 

Has  put  a  lasting  clutch-hold  on  the  rock, 

Much  like  the  miser's  fingers  on  his  gold. 

Within  its  arteries  the  sap  of  life, 

The  procreative  juice  in  torrents  flows, 

And  gushes  forth  luxurious  vegetation. 

The  foliage-covered  head  is  always  raised 

In  bold  defiance  of  the  elements. 

Undaunted  by  the  tempest's  fiendish  rage, 

Calm  under  the  concerted  stare  of  stars, 

The  fickle  lover  of  a  fickle  moon. 

On  balmy  days  or  peaceful  summer  eves 

The  rendezvous  of  master-singer  birds. 

Perennial,  rich,  melodious  and  sad, 

Passionate  and  desolate  and  wild 

And  beautiful  and  always  beautiful. 


CHIAROSCURO 

I  met  a  plum-hued  Venus  late  one  night, 
Live  specimen  of  pure  Egyptian  art. 
The  regal  amplitude  of  tropic  zones, 
Their  rich  luxuriance  breathed  on  her  face 
And  radiated  from  her  clothed  form. 

Her  eyes  shone  with  that  lustful  brilliancy 
Of  eyes  of  jungle  prowlers  who  at  night 
A-sniffling  and  a-growling  hunt  for  mates. 

Her  mellow,  soft  and  sing-song  voice  was  whisp'ring 
Enticing  promises  of  untold  joys 
To  taste  of  in  this  paradise  of  jet. 

Alas !  the  curse  of  value,  price  and  profit 

Indelibly  was  branded  on  her  brow, 

The  brow  that  ages  past  was  of  a  savage. 

Oh !  thou  hast  conquered  glorious  Christian  progress. 


DESPONDENCY 

I  sadly  watch  the  hours  go  by, 

The  hours,  the  days,  the  months,  the  years, 

And  what's  called  life  shall  soon  go  by, 

And  helpless  and  with  fruitless  rage 

I  watch  the  hours  of  life  go  by. 

And  I  must  curse  when  I  would  bless, 
And  I  who  am  all  love,  must  hate, 
And  I  who  have  been  born  to  sing 
Must  spend  myself  in  moans  and  tears. 

And  must  I  perish  on  this  rock 
A  cruel  God  has  bound  me  to? 
Will  not  some  Hercules  ere  come 
And  make  me  free? 


IN  MEMORIAM 

Within  the  mansion  of  my  memory 

There  is  a  sumptuous  chapel,  where  at  times 

I  kneel  in  deep  devotion  at  the  shrines 

Of  all  the  blessed  women  I  have  loved. 

I  burn  for  them  the  incense  of  my  thoughts ; 

Before  their  sacred  images  I  lay 

The  flowers  of  my  purest  sentiments, 

And  on  their  altars  piously  I  light 

The  pallid  candles  of  my  vain  regrets. 

I  oft  hold  retrospective  rendezvous 
Within  the  chapel  of  the  loves  of  yore. 


53 


SPRING  SONG 

I  too  shall  sing  thy  glory,  Spring, 
Oh,  season  in  thyself  a  song; 
In  every  tongue  thy  name  doth  ring 
With  music  we  remember  long. 
Fruehling !   Primavera !   Spring ! 
Thy  name  to  whisper  is  to  sing. 

Why  should  I  seek  sweet  melody 
And  softly  sounding  words  to  say 
All  that  the  springtime  means  to  me? 
Why  should  I  make  an  effort,  pray, 
When  Fruehling!  primavera!  spring! 
To  whisper  only  is  to  sing. 


54 


TO  A  FRIEND 

You  sigh  because  you  are  not  loved. 

You  only  think  you  are  not  loved. 

I  also  sighed  as  you  now  sigh, 

Because  I  thought  I  was  not  loved. 

But  I  was  loved — how  I  was  loved! 

She  lay  awake  at  night  and  dreamed 

Of  me,  who  thought  I  was  not  loved. 

Some  loves  like  blooms  that  blush  unseen, 

Remain  unknown  and  unconfessed, 

And  we  oftimes  are  best  beloved 

When  loved  with  love  in  silence  shrined. 

So  be  not  sad,  dear  friend,  nor  sigh, 

But  feel  assured  there  is  a  heart 

In  this  wide  world  that  beats  for  you. 


55 


I  SAW  THREE  NUNS 

I  saw  three  nuns  go  by  the  other  day : 
Three  upright  coffins  slowly  gliding  by. 

Funereal,  black  and  chilling  to  behold, 
The  ghastly  shadows  of  a  defunct  past. 
The  worms  of  ignorance  and  superstition 
Give  to  these  dead,  the  semblances  of  life. 
The  past  has  not  yet  buried  all  its  dead. 

I  saw  three  nuns  go  by  the  other  day : 
Three  upright  coffins  slowly  gliding  by. 


A  WOMAN  LOVES  ME 

A  woman  loves  me ! 

'Tis  not  of  her  I  sing  whose  womb  has  been 
The  primal  cradle  of  my  tender  self; 
I  mean  not  mother-love. 

A  woman  loves  me ! 
'Tis  not  of  her  I  sing  who  also  sprang 
From  that  same  source  whence  also  I  have  sprung; 
I  mean  not  sister-love. 

A  woman  loves  me ! 

I  sing  of  her  who  "from  the  mobs  of  life" 
Has  chosen  me  as  him  to  whom  alone 
She  will  unlock  her  body  and  her  soul 
To  welcome  all  my  love. 


57 


ELIZABETH  GURLEY  FLYNN 

(The  Workers'  Jeanne  d'Arc) 
She  too  a  vision  had  and  voices  heard : 
She  heard  the  groans  of  slaving,  starving  workers 
She  had  a  vision  of  their  liberation. 

She  also  mounted  steed  and  armor  donned. 
The  soap-box  or  the  platform  is  her  steed. 
Her  coat  of  mail  defiance  of  the  powers. 

She  too  to  victory  an  army  leads. 

Her  army  is  the  risen  proletariat, 

In  arms  against  their  pitiless  exploiters. 

She  too  is  hated  by  the  church  and  state. 
They'd  burn  her  at  the  stake  if  they  but  dared, 
Condemned  for  witchcraft  or  some  other  crime. 

She  too  shall  live  an  ever-shining  glory, 
In  human  history,  in  human  hearts — 
An  even  brighter  glory  than  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

The  Maid  of  Orleans  routed  but  the  English, 
And  to  a  worthless  king  restored  a  throne, 
To  sway  a  sceptre  o'er  a  land  of  serfs. 

Lead  by  Elizabeth  we'll  rout  the  masters 
And  to  the  workers  of  the  world  restore 
The  earth  itself  and  all  its  joys  and  riches. 

Let  all  men  rally  round  her  blood-red  banner 
Which  bears  the  motto  of  the  revolution : 
"Death  to  all  masters!   Freedom  to  all  slaves!" 

58 


JEALOUSY 

As  you  peruse  those  heavy,  dusty  volumes 
With  tense  attention  hour  after  hour, 
Whilst  totally  indifferent  to  me, — 
To  me,  who  sees  in  you  the  book  of  books, 
To  whom  the  very  cover  of  this  book, 
Your  outward  aspect,  is  more  interesting 
Than  the  contents  of  all  books  ever  printed. 

Is  it  a  wonder  I  would  like  to  build 

A  mammoth  pile  of  all  the  books  there  are 

And  let  the  raging  fire  consume  them  all? 


59 


MISERS 

I  know  of  misers  meaner  than  are  those 

Who  lay  awake  at  night  to  guard  their  treasure, 

Which  is  in  their  possession  only  dust, 

A  sordid,  useless  heap  of  gilded  dust 

That  might  have  given  peace  and  bread  to  many. 

The  misers  whom  I  mean  are  fair  to  see, 

Delightful  to  converse  with  and  to  kiss ; 

They  fascinate  us  with  their  wondrous  eyes 

As  serpents  fascinate  the  little  birds. 

They  draw  us  closer  to  them,  ever  closer, 

Then  suddenly  like  serpents  they  coil  up 

And  put  beyond  our  grasp  their  queenly  treasures, 

Alas !  in  their  possession  to  remain, 

But  useless,  vain  and  perishable  things 

That  might  have  given  ecstasy  to  many. 


60 


SWINBURNE 

Algernon  Swinburne,  is  there  not  in  thee 
Something  akin  to  bells  that  ring  at  sea  ? 

In  their  sound  so  clear 

There  is  little  cheer, 

When  their  knell  I  hear 

I  recoil  with  fear. 

Though  thy  voice  be  clear  as  the  day's  light, 
It  is  pregnant  with  mystery,  death,  and  night. 


OUR  LADY  OF  INFINITE  MERCY 

I  often  think  of  a  mysterious  woman — 

There  must  be  somewhere  a  mysterious  woman, 

Mysterious  and  most  marvelous  of  beauty, 

Most  beautiful, — miraculously  kind, 

Indeed  a  kindness  passing  understanding, 

So  great  a  kindness  that  it  seemeth  madness. 

It  seemeth  madness,  for  she  sallies  forth 

At  dead  of  night  into  the  dismal  streets, 

Into  the  dismal  and  deserted  streets, 

Monotously  criss-crossing  the  city, 

The  monstrous,  lightless,  heartless,  sleeping  city, 

Where  prowling  as  the  vermin  shunning  light, 

Or  derelicts  adrift  on  dreary  seas, 

She  seeks  the  disinherited  of  joy 

She  seeks  the  stunted,  the  disfigured  children, 

The  starved,  diseased  and  the  discouraged  children 

Of  stepmother  society,  seeks  them  out, 

Whom  everybody  shuns  and  no  one  loves. 

She  seeks  them  out  and  gives  herself  to  them, 

This  queenly  woman,  marvelous  of  beauty, 

Entirely  gives  herself  to  those  of  whom 

The  thought  alone  makes  shudder  with  disgust. 

She  gives  herself  even  as  the  twilight  enters 

A  fetid,  vermin-ridden,  mildewed  dungeon, 

A  whiff  of  heaven  in  a  life  of  hell. 

Oh,  have  you,  have  you  ever  seen  that  woman, 

That  beautiful,  that  kind,  mysterious  woman? 

She  is  our  Lady  of  Infinite  Mercy. 

Blessed  be  our  Lady  of  Infinite  Mercy! 


62 


A  PAGAN'S  PRAYER 

I  sought  the  shrine  of  Eros  and  I  prayed: — 

O  God  omnipotent,  O  God  supreme, 

O  God  of  love  who  art  the  God  of  Gods, 

Behold  thy  worshipper  upon  his  knees 

Prostrated  in  the  dust. 

Let  not  my  supplications  rise  in  vain 

From  depths  iniquitous  to  heights  sublime. 

0  grant  me  my  request,  good  God  of  love. 
Unlock  for  me  thy  secret  treasure  house 
And  make  me  master  of  the  arts  of  love. 

My  heart  conceives  great  symphonies  of  love 
That  my  poor  body  cannot  execute. 

1  am  a  Beethoven,  I  am  a  Wagner, 

My  orchestration  needs  a  thousand  pieces, 

But  am  restricted  to  a  shepherd's  reed. 

Reveal  to  me  the  secrets  of  the  ancients, 

Instruct  me  in  the  art  of  love  long  lost ; 

That  love  of  time  when  Gods  and  humans  mingled. 

In  love  I  am  a  God,  in  love  expression 

I  am  alas !  a  frail,  a  weakling  human. 

O  Eros !  Eros !  Eros !    God  of  love, 

Give  me  the  power  to  love  as  Gods  can  love. 


63 


NIETZSCHE 

A  sombre  silhouette 
Against  a  sun-rise  sky 
In  solemn  solitude, 
The  wanderer  goes  by. 

The  shadow  that  he  casts 
Upon  the  plains  below 
Strikes  terror  to  the  hearts 
Of  those  that  do  not  know. 

O  messenger  sublime 
Who  hailest  from  that  land 
Where  joy  and  beauty  reign; 
If  they  could  understand !  .  .  . 

If  they  could  understand 
The  message  that  you  bring, 
They'd  strew  your  path  with  palms ; 
Hosannahs  would  they  sing. 

Strength  superceding  faith, 
Joy  superceding  fear: 
The  Super-Christ  has  come ; 
The  Superman  is  near.  .  .  . 


64 


TO  A  NEGRO  BELLE 

You  make  me  dream  of  distant  tropic  climes, 

Luxurious  vegetation;  nights  serene 

By  burning  passion  made  tempestuous, 

The  witching  scent  of  rare  exotic  flowers 

That  sooth  and  render  sweetly  languorous, 

Of  music  soft  and  weird,  whose  savage  rhythm 

Compels  each  fibre  of  the  frame  to  dance. 

I  see  you  as  the  princess  of  an  isle 

Whose  jungles  are  replete  with  beasts  of  prey, 

And  whose  vast  forests  ever  are  alive 

With  cries  and  frolickings  of  birds  and  apes; 

Whose  villages  of  bamboo  huts  are  full 

Of  dusky-hued  and  happy  naked  people. 

Your  simple  hearted  subjects  pay  you  homage; 

Prostrated  in  the  dust,  they  weirdly  chant 

Thy  praises,  even  as  in  my  own  way, 

I  sing  your  praises,  sweet,  exotic  princess. 

Oh,  let  me  enter  your  enchanted  realm, 

And  make  of  me  your  happy,  humble  slave. 


65 


WALT  WHITMAN 

Mountain-like  he  towers,  a  Matterhorn 

Midst  many  minor  peaks; 

And  like  a  mountain,  mighty,  vast  and  wild ; 

A  finger  pointing  into  boundless  space, 

A  head  raised  high  above  the  shifting  clouds, 

A  heart  that  beats  in  unison  with  all, 

An  eye  that  first  beholds  the  rising  sun 

And  is  the  last  to  see  her  parting  glory, 

A  clarion-call  to  freedom, 

A  gesture  of  revolt, 

A  world-encircling  brotherhood  embrace, 

An  exaltation  of  the  lowly, 

A  vindication  of  the  truth, 

A  glorification  of  the  human  body, 

A  declaration  of  the  right  of  all 

To  live,  to  love,  to  dare  and  to  do, 

A  hymn  to  life,  a  rhapsody  of  joy ! 


66 


LIFE-LUST 

My  mouth — the  mouth  of  my  whole  being  waters 
For  all  the  fruit  upon  the  lap  of  Life ; 
The  luscious  fruit  of  Life,  (delicious  fruit, 
All  running  over  with  the  juice  of  joy.) 

Life  seems  a  banquet  and  my  gourmand  senses 
Would  gorge  themselves  with  all  good  things  thereof. 
My  taste,  my  touch,  my  smell,  my  sight,  my  hearing 
Would  drink  the  seasoned  vintages  of  Life, 
And  relish  all  Life's  rarest  fruits  and  viands. 

Content  to  go  whene'er  the  feast  is  over 
Content,  the  feast  was  not  prepared  in  vain. 


67 


ON  A  TALK  OF  SPINOZA 

Durant  spoke  of  Spinoza  yesterday 
And  I  sat  list'ning,  feeling,  meditating. 
And  now  and  ever  afterwards  will  feel 
And  live  and  think  more  deeply  than  before, 
For  having  heard  Durant  speak  of  Spinoza. 

Spinoza !  what  a  mighty,  mighty  name ! 
All  Alexanders,  Caesars  and  Napoleons — 
Mere  specks  of  dust  upon  a  polished  lense, 
Compared  to  that  poor  polisher  of  lenses. 

He  polished  lenses  for  myopic  eyes, 
The  world's  myopic  eyes  hath  need  of  them — 
And  long  will  need  them, — poor  myopic  world. 
My  own  sight  seems  improved  since  I  have  heard 
Durant  speak  of  Spinoza  yesterday. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  RAGGED 

We  who  have  but  rags  to  wear, 
Let  us  go  out  on  strike 
And  face  the  robber-master  class 
In  all  our  naked  might. 

Do  they  not  hold  that  man  is  made 
In  the  image  of  his  God? 
So  we  refuse  to  desecrate 
The  image  of  their  God. 

No  longer  will  we  soil  our  limbs, 
These  beautiful,  these  wondrous  limbs 
With  filthy,  fetid  rags. 

Where  is  the  beast  so  wild, 
The  reptile  or  the  worm  so  base  in  kind, 
Would  not  disdain  the  rags  "creation's  kings" 
Disgrace  their  bodies  with? 

Oh  be  not  shocked  at  our  forced  nakedness, 
Ye  masters  who  refuse  to  clothe  your  slaves. 
Do  you  not  steal  the  wool  that  we  have  shorn, 
The  cloth  we  weave,  the  garments  that  we  made? 
You  stole  our  clothes,  behold  us  naked  now. 

Let  us  arise  and  from  our  bodies  tear 

The  fetid  uniform  that  brands  us  slaves. 

In  countless  masses  let  us  rally  forth 

And  through  each  pore  of  our  free  body  shout 

Our  right  to  life,  to  liberty,  and  joy. 


69 


I'VE  SEEN  A  PRINCESS 

I've  read  of  princesses  in  fairy  tales 

And  I  have  sometimes  dreamed  of  princesses 

But  not  until  to-day  have  I  beheld, 

Beheld  or  ever  spoken  to  a  princess. 

Yes,  I  have  seen  and  spoken  to  a  princess 

In  body  and  in  mind;  in  thought  and  gesture, 

Indeed,  in  every  way  a  perfect  princess. 

Since  I  am  not  some  mighty  potentate 

In  whom  it  would  not  seem  as  sheer  presumption 

To  lay  his  heart  and  domains  at  her  feet, 

Would  I  at  least  could  be  a  humble  page 

Forever  in  attendance  on  his  princess, 

To  serve  her  and  to  worship  her  in  silence, 

And  be  allowed  as  wages  for  his  hire 

To  breathe  within  the  shadow  of  her  charms. 

But  though  my  princess  be  reality, 

My  hopes,  my  aspirations,  my  desires, 

Alas,  are  dreams,  mere  dreams,  alas,  mere  dreams. 


70 


THE  GREAT  DISCARD 

I  see  a  mighty  junk-heap  rising  high, 

Old  bibles,  crosses,  crescents,  six-point  stars 

And  other  symbols,  idol's  fetiches — 

The  bloody  tools  of  greed  and  superstition, 

That  have  tormented  man  for  centuries, 

Disfiguring  his  body  and  his  mind. 

I  see  the  flags  of  all  the  various  nations, 

In  whose  defense  men  slaughtered  one  another 

Upon  this  junk-heap  also;  and  the  books 

Wherein  the  laws  are  writ,  that  give  to  man 

The  power  over  man ; 

And  all  the  institutions  that  have  helped 

To  make  of  man  an  abject  slave  or  tyrant, 

These,  too,  are  on  this  junk-heap. 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  RHAPSODY 

I  am  a  God ! 

I  am  drunk  with  the  joy  of  creating. 

At  my  touch  form  comes  out  of  chaos. 

With  a  handful  of  clay  I  build  monuments, 

Vaster  than  the  pyramids, 

More  mysterious  than  the  Sphinx, 

As  startling  as  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes. 

My  statues  are  austere  as  ancient  cathedrals, 

Their  silhouette  effaces  the  sky, 

Their   shadows   engulf  entire  cities. 

I  am  a  God! 

I  am  drunk  with  the  joy  of  creating. 


72 


ATAVISM 

O,  have  you  ever  heard  the  gutter's  call? 

E'er  felt  the  strange  attraction  of  the  sewer? 

Or  ceded  to  the  urge  from  underneath, 

To  wallow  in  the  mire,  to  plunge,  to  sink 

Into  the  frightful  abyss  of  perdition? 

Were  you  e'er  tempted  from  some  siren's  lips, 

To  cull  the  bliss,  you  know,  is  venomous? 

Or  did  you  feel  the  satanic  desire, 

To  soil  and  mutilate  the  sacred  image 

Of  that  ideal  you  worshiped  all  your  life? 

It  is  the  atavistic  voice  that's  waking, 

The  dormant  beast  in  you.    Beware!  Beware! 


73 


TO  ONE  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOVE 


You  told  me  that  you  love  the  water, 

The  cascades'  roaring,  rushing  water, 

The  rivers'  gently  flowing  water, 

The  pools'  mysterious  silent  water, 

The  erring  brooklets'  whisp'ring  water, 

The  oceans'  moaning,  hissing  water, 

The  oceans'  seething,  sighing  water, 

It's  thundering,  carressing  water. 

My  love  for  you  is  also  as  the  water, 

The  roaring,  rushing,  silent,  whisp'ring  water. 

The  thundering,  the  seething,  sighing  water. 

Oh,  love  me,  for  my  love  is  like  the  water, 
Did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  love  the  water? 


74 


II 

I've  been  a  profligate  till  now, 

Have  squandered  of  the  treasures  of  my  heart 

In  reckless  fashion. 

Henceforth  my  beloved, 

Each  precious  scrap  of  love, 

Each  feeling,  thought  or  passion, 

Is  yours  alone. 

My  very  life  is  yours. 


75 


Ill 

You  sometime  make  me  dream  of  fair  Granada, 
Of  olden  days  of  Moorish  reign  and  glory ; 
At  other  times  you  make  me  feel  the  gloom 
Of  Christian  Spain,  sepulchral  and  morose. 

You  are  as  the  Alhambra  when  you  smile, 
Gold-tinted,  graceful,  radiating  joy. 
But  when  you  frown  or  are  indifferent, 
Then  like  to  the  Escurial  you  are, 
Depressing,  full  of  sombreness  and  chill. 


76 


IV 

I  strolled  through  lonely  by-paths  in  the  park, 

It  was  the  hour,  it  was  the  mystic  hour, 

When  'tis  no  longer  day,  nor  yet  is  night. 

When  o'er  all  nature  hangs  a  solemn  hush, 

And  everything  is  peaceful  and  serene. 

And  thus  I  strolled  along  and  thought  of  her — 

And  then  I  sat  upon  a  rustic  bench 

And  thought  of  her, — and  only  thought  of  her. 

And  o'ver  all  nature  hung  a  solemn  hush ; 

And  I  was  sad,  and  it  was  growing  dark. 

And  as  I  sat  there  on  the  rustic  bench 

Close  by  to  me  I  heard  two  voices  speak. 

They  spoke  Italian.    Softly  did  they  speak, 

And  there  was  sadness  in  their  voices  too. 

One  spoke  of  Beatrice  as  angel  might 

Have  spoken  of  the  queen  of  all  the  heavens; 

The  other  spoke  of  Laura  as  a  bard 

Would  speak  of  her  who  might  have  been  the  queen,- 

The  queen  of  every  kingdom  of  the  earth. 

I  turned  my  head  and  seated  by  my  side 

I  saw  the  sad,  illustrious  Tuscan  bards, 

The  requiem  of  whose  unrequited  love 

Reverberates  throughout  eternity. 

I  did  not  rise  and  go,  but  kept  my  place. 

Is  not  my  love  as  great  as  was  their  love? 

And  is  not  she  as  beautiful,  as  cold, 

As  hopelessly  indifferent  and  cold, 

As  ever  Beatrice  and  Laura  were? 

And  so  I  also  spoke  about  my  love, 

Then  we  were  silent  sitting  side  by  side. 

Upon  that  rustic  bench  in  Central  Park, 

Along  a  lonesome  by-path  in  the  park. 

77 


It  was  the  hour,  it  was  that  mystic  hour 
When  'tis  no  longer  day  nor  yet  is  night; 
And  o'er  all  nature  hangs  a  solemn  hush, 
And  everything  is  peaceful  and  serene. 
Then  they  both  went  away  so  quietly 
That  I  was  unaware  that  they  had  gone 
Until  I  turned  my  head  and  saw  them  not. 


V 

My  heart  is  like  a  man  condemned  to  death, 
Who  in  the  corner  of  his  gloomy  cell 
Hugs  one  last  spark  of  hope. 

Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  dark  of  night, 
And  as  a  diamond  difficult  to  crush, 
Is  this  last  spark  of  hope. 


79 


VI 

Since  Orpheus  with  the  magic  of  his  music, 

Could  charm  the  wildest  beast,  why  could  not  I 

Enthrall  you  with  the  music  of  my  love? 

Is  not  love's  music  magical  enough, 

Or  is  your  heart  stone  deaf? 

Even  if  so! 

I  will  perform  a  miracle  and  cause 

Your  heart  to  hear  love's  music. 


80 


VII 

And  even  if  you  loved  me  not, 

If  you  but  knew  the  pain  I  feel 

When  you  but  breathe  a  word  that's  harsh, 

When  you  betray  the  faintest  frown ; 

And  when  you  mock  me  for  my  love, 

Or  chide  me  for  the  least  caress, 

If  you  but  knew  the  pain  I  feel. 

Aye,  even  if  you  loved  me  not, 

You  ne'er  would  frown  at  me  or  mock 

My  love  for  you,  or  harshly  speak, 

Or  bid  me  not  to  kiss  your  hand; 

Instead  you'd  treat  me  as  a  child, 

You'd  treat  me  as  a  child  that's  sick, 

And  patiently  you  would  submit 

To  my  caress;  you  would  allow 

My  feverish  hands  to  stroke  your  hair, 

My  quivering  lips  to  kiss  your  brow, 

My  famished  eyes  to  feast  on  you, 

And  my  delirious  heart  to  spin : 

To  spin  a  spider's  web  of  love, 

To  make  your  heart  its  captive  fly. 

Aye,  even  if  you  loved  me  not, 
If  you  but  knew  the  pain  I  feel, 
Whene'er  I  think  you  love  me  not, 
You'd  treat  me  as  a  little  child ; 
You'd  tell  me  love's  sweet  fairy  tale, 
I  will  believe  love's  fairy  tale. 
Please  tell  me  love's  sweet  fairy  tale, 
Aye,  even  if  you  love  me  not. 


81 


VIII 

The  sun  is  warm  and  bright, 

All  nature  sings; 

The  song  of  love  and  life  is  in  the  air, 

The  flowing  waters  and  the  rolling  hills, 

The  grass  we  tread  upon,  the  birds  that  fly, 

The  humming  insects,  aye,  all  men,  all  beasts, 

All  things  are  happy  in  the  sun's  caress. 

But  in  my  heart,  in  my  unhappy  heart, 
The  icy  blast  of  winter  still  persists, 
And  desolation  reigns. 
Your  frown  obliterates  the  sun  for  me, 
And  your  indifference  is  worse  than  death. 
And  in  my  heart,  in  my  unhappy  heart, 
Dire  desolation  reigns. 


82 


IX 

This  is  the  tale  of  an  unhappy  sculptor, 
A  shaft  of  marble  radiantly  white, 
Whose  adamantine  substance  would  not  yield 
To  the  impassioned  efforts  of  the  sculptor. 
The  chisel  struck  the  irresponsive  rock 
Again,  again,  again,  but  all  in  vain 
Until  at  last  discouraged  and  exhausted 
He  sinks  down  at  the  foot  of  this  cold  stone. 

That  might  have  been  a  living  Galathea, 
But  is  alas  the  tombstone  of  Pygmalion. 


83 


X 

It  was  a  sepulchre  I  have  been  wooing: 

Fair  to  behold  was  she  and  seeming  warm, 

But  deep  within  as  cold  as  death  itself, 

And  to  love's  fervent  pleadings  irresponsive; 

Aye,  even  as  the  tomb. 

Deaf  to  the  voice  of  poetry  and  love, 

Alas!  she's  doubly  deaf. 

It  was  a  sepulchre  I  have  been  wooing. 


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